


it only takes a sip (or an entire mason jar of hooch)

by deceptivelycomplex3925



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mellivia December, i love me some drunk mellivia, omfg i didn't know this was a thing?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:08:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8853349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deceptivelycomplex3925/pseuds/deceptivelycomplex3925
Summary: She flexes her jaw and snatches her glass off the table, downing it in three swallows. She sets it down and stands, moving to the slumped figure across from her. “Alright,” she starts, eyes dipping to linger on the exposed skin of Mellie’s shoulder where her dress strap has fallen, and maybe she's a little drunk, too. She bends to take the half empty mason jar from Mellie’s hand and sighs when the hand is ripped away, a resounding pout on bare lips, a glare.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I was badgered into this. The timeline is fuzzy - I was on the episodes right after Olivia gets kidnapped when I wrote this. This is my first time writing these two gorgeous ladies. Hopefully I didn't screw it up too much.

“Haven't you ever wondered why we've never hate fucked each other?”

 

Olivia sputters on her swallow of wine. Her throat burns, an odd and unpleasant sensation. Her voice is scratchy when she speaks, eyebrows arched high.

 

“I'm sorry, _hate fucked_?”

 

Olivia sets her glass down, thinking perhaps her and Mellie should never drink together again.

 

Mellie waves an uncoordinated hand, her words already slurred. “Oh come on, darlin’, don't pretend like you don't know what that means.”

 

Olivia blinks. And blinks. She's never been on the receiving end of a word like that from Mellie. Has never seen her quite this drunk. A memory, unbidden, flashes across her mind, hands reaching for her face, her own eyes possibly tipping down -

 

She flexes her jaw and snatches her glass off the table, downing it in three swallows.

 

She sets it down and stands, moving to the slumped figure across from her. “Alright,” she starts, eyes dipping to linger on the exposed skin of Mellie’s shoulder where her dress strap has fallen, and maybe she's a little drunk, too. She bends to take the half empty mason jar from Mellie’s hand and sighs when the hand is ripped away, a resounding pout on bare lips, a glare.

 

“You are not my mother, Olivia Pope,” she pops the p, “and if I want to get drunker than Cooter Brown, I'm damned well going to.” She tips back the glass to prove her point, Olivia watching her throat as she swallows, the tendons of her neck -

 

Olivia inhales slowly, _hate fucked_ bouncing around in her head like a taunt. She’s accustomed to having too much wine...she's just never around this particular Grant when she does.

 

Mellie meets her gaze, always a challenge in her eyes when they're around each other, always an unspoken tension, felt but never ( _usually_ ) blatantly mentioned.

 

She thinks of Fitz thousands of miles away, speaking words she'd written down for him, words she'd added and sentences she'd taken out. She thinks of a couch with one cushion still missing. She thinks of the gun in her nightstand drawer. She thinks of the way Mellie’s hair looks when it's slightly mussed, she thinks of the sharp taste of alcohol on a tongue usually so caustic with words toward her except for tonight. Not tonight. There's something different about tonight. There's something different about the challenge in eyes a cutting grey-blue storm, so very different to the muted blue of Fitz’s eyes and since when was anything with Fitz _muted_?

 

She straightens abruptly, running unsteady fingers down her heather grey slacks. She nods, doesn't look at Mellie as she moves across the room - _their_ room - to her purse. She's rummaging for her phone when she turns around.

 

Her breath hitches audibly. She feigns confusion, adds a bit of resentment-saturated anger in there, too. She's very good at play acting.

 

“I’ll just let you drink yourself into a coma by yourself then,” Olivia says, words soft because Mellie’s so close but also hard because Mellie’s _too_ close and Olivia keeps noticing the faint smell of her perfume, the divot in her chin, is imagining the sound of a necklace being torn, pearls pinging and clinking against wood tile. The gasp that would follow.

 

Olivia feels a distinct tug behind her navel. She needs to leave, _now_.

 

So she does. She moves around Mellie, thinks she's safe when she isn't stopped. But then a hand wraps around her wrist and it isn't gentle and it doesn't let go.

 

Olivia doesn't struggle in the grasp, knows that Mellie would never hurt her, (not really anyway and not unless she asked her to), and dear _god_ she's never drinking around this woman _ever_ again.

 

There's still that challenge swirling around in irises too blue and of course she knows what hate fucking is. Of course she's thought about it with Mellie.

 

“Mellie,” she says, a warning. Mellie arches an eyebrow in response, expression overbearingly haughty.

 

A few beats of silence pass before Olivia decides to shut this down. She'll be damned if she succumbs to Mellie Grant of all people. And like _hell_ this isn't some layered attempt to garner a blackmailed colored knife to use as a weapon later down the road. “Mellie,” she repeats, “this is -”

 

“Is it because I'm a woman or because I'm the woman your boyfriend use to pretend to fuck?”

 

Olivia’s neck jerks back, brow furrowing. She opens her mouth to say that gender has never registered in her mind as a deciding factor in the people she's slept with, though she can see how Mellie would think -

 

She realizes she's being backed up, her spine pressing against something hard and flat. From the soft click, she assumes it's the door to the room. She sees the unmade bed in her peripheral, eyes still on Mellie’s when she speaks again, not allowing her to voice her thoughts.

 

“Or is it because I'm not the _right_ Grant?” Here, the register of her voice drops into something sonorous, silky, and too much for her wine-addled mind. Everything feels like it's been dipped in wax, every movement, every shift of her eyes, a beat too slow, the hand at her wrist, the hardness at her back, everything feeling far away but _too close_ all at the same time. “Because I’m too vanilla? How could I not be when even my own husband can’t get off to the thought of me?” Her eyes shift, head tilting. Her voice skips up into that tone she uses when she’s being garishly condescending. “Or maybe it's because I'm too drunk and you're _Olivia Pope_ and you would _never_ take advantage of the woman who's already been raped once before.”

 

Olivia sucks in a sharp breath here, truly angry now. She shoves at Mellie, the hand at her wrist loosening and falling away as she holds Mellie’s gaze, hoping it burns her.

 

“Of course I would never take advantage of you,” she seethes, her words rushed with her ire. “Because for all of your truly _terrible_ qualities, and believe me, Mellie, there are _a lot_ ,” here, Mellie’s jaw lifts, and maybe there's a flash of hurt in eyes forever challenging, and maybe Olivia will feel regret for the words later, “but you didn't deserve _that_. _No one_ deserves that.”

 

She shakes the hair out of her face, straightens her shoulders as best she can, and says her parting shot, heart pounding beneath her ribcage as she decides that if Mellie can show a bit of vulnerability, then so can she. She may also still feel that she owes it to her. That no matter what she does, she will never be absolved of the gnawing guilt that always eats at her whenever she's around this woman.

 

“And though I _have_ thought about it, we are both very drunk and I don't think either of us could handle the backward psychological irony us sleeping together would cause.”

 

It's meant to be a joke, a distraction for her admission, but Mellie just freezes. Mouth parting and body going entirely still as she stares. Like she hadn't been expecting it. The upper hand tumbling to the ground, shattering like she imagines a mason jar full of hooch would.

 

Olivia’s eyes widen, her own mouth parting, and she feels, very suddenly, the wax fall away completely, everything around her becoming very, _very_ clear. There's an ache between her legs, an urge in her belly, a _want_ , and she's so suddenly _aware_ of it that she doesn't speak, doesn't comment on Mellie’s still frozen expression. She just turns and leaves. Walks out the door, out of the White House, barely hears someone bidding her goodnight.

 

She curses Mellie and her words, curses Mellie and her goddamn proclivity for hard liquor.

 

Mostly, she curses herself for allowing the thoughts of necklaces tearing and surprised gasps to filter through. For soft hands and icy blue eyes. For muted blues and a ring still on her finger.

 

She walks all the way home, too confused and numb to let familiar, all-consuming fear bleed its way into her skin.

 

And for this, she thinks, she can forgive Mellie a little bit.


End file.
